The Portrait of The Writer

“But I will write in spite of everything, absolutely; it is my struggle for self-preservation.” Franz Kafka

The Portrait of The Writer

I

When the sky finally gave up her petulant behavior and decided twelve hours of purgatory was enough, snow fell from the heavens as if a fleet was unleashed. It truly felt this way to The Writer, who had spent the last half of the previous night sitting on top of his windowsill. He wanted to be there when the snow arrived.

The Writer watched it all happen, sparkling glitter under the streetlights. In the apartment unit over, the children were slowly waking, expressing their half-conscious glee at the weather. According to the town paper, snowstorms like this only came every few years.

The absence of snow was deeply felt, in particular by The Writer, who yearned routinely altered scenery. He had spent December and the larger part of January ruing the lack of cold. The inclement weather would settle right with him – an excuse to stay indoors more than he already did.

In three hours, the streets would be completely and wholly coated, unmanageable. Children would be trekking over the gardens, leaving their little footprints in their wake. And later in the night, before bed, the children would step outside and pull at the icicles hanging from The Writer’s windowpane while their parents watched from the street. They often poked fun at him this way, but The Writer didn’t care much – as long as he was left in peace in his apartment unit.

His unit was sandwiched between two of the largest units in the building on the third floor – Unit B2 and Unit B3. The Realtor had told him that if those units were the same size as the rest of the units in the building, The Writer would, too, have had an appropriately sized living space, however, B2 and B3 were owned by The Superintendents, two brothers who competed with each other so desperately, they’d demanded the architects to make B2 and B3 the largest, months after the building’s complete construction. In a meeting with the lawyers, contractors, architects, and construction company, it was decided that both units would merge with their flanking units. The project took an additional six week to break the walls down. The entire building was evacuated.

However, due to the width of the building, which was preplanned years in advance when the demolition and restoration process fell onto the desk of the township mayor, it was impossible to split the third floor into two even apartment units, thus leaving a one hundred eighty three square foot excess. The Older Superintendent wanted eighty square feet to include another powder room for his wife and The Younger Superintendent wanted ninety square feet to include a small foyer at the entrance of his unit. The uneven split sent The Superintendents into a legal rage, so the contractors and lawyers decided to leave the one hundred eighty three square feet for other options. One architect thought to make it into a banquet room. Another thought to transfer it into a lounge room. Ultimately, the township stepped in, equipping it with a kitchen and small bathroom as a separate unit, just in case someone was willing to pay to live there.

The Writer now occupied the unit B2½.

The Writer, according to the other tenants, had the worst unit for an entirely different reason. While all the other units had several aesthetically placed windows in their apartments; facing the gardens, the mountains in the east, and the highways in the west, The Writer had one single window facing the street, due to the unusual renovation of the third floor.

The Realtor didn’t bother to ask The Writer if he was absolutely sure about purchasing B2½. The unit had been available for rent for three years. The only parting message the realtor gave to The Writer was hesitantly thrown over her shoulder. “This is no place to have a wife,” she told him, shutting the door. “And children.”

This issue did not affect The Writer. He had come from a different landscape before journeying closer to the mountains. Finding the circumstances that led him to move up north so dire, he’d accepted the possibility of living in a cabin in the woods and learning how to hunt for his food. See, in the south, where The Writer lived his entire life, he was subjected to long springs, torrent rains that permeated every pair of shoes he owned, and an abundance of wildlife having been in close proximity to the jungle.

It hadn’t been a lack of luck that that brought The Writer to B2½, but quite the opposite. If you dared to speak to him, he’d tell you it was fate. There was nothing The Writer needed more than the limited space and a window facing the street.

II

Before ‘The Writer’ became his sole persona, he was ‘The Professor’ for three years. And before that, ‘The Student’ and since birth, ‘The Artist.’ Once, he was just “The Sick Boy.” The Writer had a terrible disease for a few weeks when he was young. It had made him so ill, the doctors that went to his house only lingered for a few seconds to avoid catching the disease. Although he recovered, the ache sometimes remained in his lungs, especially in the winter. Sometimes when he cried. Sometimes when he longed for contact.

At the university, he taught mathematics to students only four years his junior. Most young professors were popular amongst the pupils. Old surly professors were avoided without shame. The Professor was widely sought out by the students for his demure mannerisms and objective good looks, however, they would be severely disappointed when The Professor kept his head low and maintained eye contact solely with the pristine white laces of his shoes. He was told to enjoy the life he’d made there – not many academics were able to work at such a fine school with Victorian style towers for classrooms, and dormitories that were lined with heavy red drapery, inspired by the lingering grasp of the British Empire, and certainly none that were paid as decent of a salary.

He left academia when forced to live through an entire month of misery, getting to work in soggy clothing, and adapting a permanent shiver in his spine. He rarely ate the overly spiced food, and barely slept as well. Salary be damned. He put his apartment up for rent in October and moved into B2½ in December.

The Writer always existed inside the various people he was, and in the small apartment that shut out all people and noise except for the sounds of The Superintendents’ children on either side of his walls, he could take his skin off. Beneath his less than successful career as a professor, The Writer sought to close himself to the public and focus on writing. In school, he’d learned through the best writers and novels that writing came through life experiences, and The Writer was experienced enough. He was well equipped to write about weather and science fiction if he chose, about a world that only existed in rain; he was well equipped to write about romance if he wanted to think back to his former Lover; he was well equipped to write about loneliness and the trickle down of generational pain if he opened his diaries and reread his turbulent entries when faced with bickering parents. He could write about the poetry of being as an anomaly. He could write about the creeping desire to sire a child as he grew closer to thirty-five years of age.

The typewriter sat before him as it did one week ago right beside the blank sheet of paper.

III

Snow began to stick on the asphalt, gently falling onto the pavements. With his pen poised, The Writer watched the scene outside, unblinking. Later in the day, he’d climb out of his window and catch the snow on his tongue. Perhaps he’d have enough to gather a ball of ice and keep it in his freezer to glance at when he needed inspiration for more writing. Something undying.

The plan was to write a short story today rather than focus on an entire novel. He waited for the words to come to him like a divine revelation. He’d read that all writers thought they were capable of writing the next profound novel of the century, but he truly believed that he could. There was little else he could make sense of. Numbers were far too easy for him, history too biased, and art too subjective. But there was a clear distinction to him between a career and a purpose. He knew that he existed to create words in sort of sequences that brought his soul to life whether that brought him financial meaning or not.

He tapped his pen against the blank sheet and continued waiting for the right words.

IV

B3’s door opened, unleashing several footsteps like tiny hounds being released from prison. Then, three children appeared before him on the street, The Twins – boys -- dragging their feet against the pavement where snow had accumulated, and The Elder Daughter, of around 8, watching them with little interest. She focused on removing the holiday lights from the shrubbery and trees, wrapping them expertly around the length of her arm. The Twins stayed close, tilting their heads back to marvel at the weather. They blinked furiously when the snow fell into their eyes and then bent over laughing, wiping their faces with handmade wool mittens.

The Older Superintendent had equipped them well for the cold, the only visible skin on their face being their red noses and full cheeks, the rest covered by large jackets, boots, and thick wool scarves. One of The Twins waddled over closer to the window and raised his hand to wave hello to The Writer. Before The Writer could break out of his stupor and decide about reciprocating the greeting, The Twin turned and slipped on the slippery concrete. The Twin cackled and wiggled around until The Elder Daughter came to pick him back up.

The Older Superintendent’s Wife called the children back when the snow picked up with the wind. The Writer watched the children migrate back inside. It was the first time since shifting up north that he ever saw The Older Superintendent’s Wife and it was startling how much the children looked like her. He’d seen The Older Superintendent a few times the first few days he moved when he hadn’t yet learned that there was a bus that could take him to the opposite end of town where the sole supermarket was, and instead he’d prepared himself with winter jackets and large scarves to walk downhill into town morning for vegetables and meat. The children resembled their father, yes, but more so their mother.

If The Writer were to have children, he would like for them to look like their mother as well. He always thought it peculiar and overly dominating of the husband to want his offspring to look like him when the mother carried them for such long, tedious months, taking strains on her body that would be life threatening in any other circumstance.

His pen scratched on the paper before him.

V

An hour later, when his page was half filled with terrible handwriting and ink stains, movement caught his eye from the window. The Writer looked up to find a car before the apartment building – a sleek black Ford. A couple sat in the front seat. The Man spoke with his hands, gesturing wildly, while The Woman sat with her eyes facing forward. When she raised her palms to her face to wipe at her tan skin, The Writer realized she was crying. Moments later, she became hysterical, bending over to sob into her knees. The man continued speaking, though slowly.

Heartless, The Writer thought. Clearly it was the man’s job to comfort her. What had happened to the men of this supposed modernized world? These people looked to the south and laughed at people like The Writer that lived more lives in more worry than they could, and yet they treated their women with such disregard. It was unsettling to want to fit into such a society.

The Woman cried and cried until she picked her head back up and coughed and wiped her face and nose once more with her hands. The Man did not offer her a tissue or his handkerchief. She stepped out of the car and wrapped her arms around herself, working through the snow to get to the apartment building. Her long hair flowed behind her like the train of a dress, leaving her red face susceptible to the frigid conditions. The Writer ducked when she neared the entrance of the building, and then felt foolish after.

So she lived here, it seemed. The Writer put his pen down and waited patiently to hear a door open and close to determine where her apartment unit was in the building, but he didn’t hear anything. The lobby belonged to the doorman and for checking in, and the second floor was for utilizing the laundry. She likely lived on the 5^th of 6^th floor where his ears didn’t reach.

VI

The Writer took a break to pray his midday prayer before returning to writing. While completing his ablution in the sink of his makeshift kitchen, he imagined the water to cleanse his entire brain, resetting it to a setting that allowed him to write better. He imagined the water cascading down his neck and into the neckline of his sweater to be knowledge seeping back into his body. For several moments after washing his face, he hovered over the sink, palms pressed to the counter, simply breathing in the hot mist of cognition.

After, he sat on his prayer mat and stared longingly out the window. From the floor, he couldn’t see the pavement or the asphalt, but he could see the swirling snow steadily dropping. In a few hours, he’d go outside, but right now there was too much to do. In his prayer, he asked God if He could help him with his words because writing was difficult today. The Writer never questioned God why He’d made him a writer and not something more useful that could equip him with skills to get good money, because The Writer did not mind. The Writer wrote because that was all he knew, because that was all God gave him. And it was enough.

VII

The Writer chewed a carrot when he returned back to his desk. His mother had told him carrots sharpened the mind, which he needed after smoothing his brain in prostration. His fingers were still wet when he picked up his pen to write some more. He thought about the children and the sobbing woman.

Although The Woman looked nothing like her, The Writer thought back to The Lover he left in the south. He’d known her his entire life having come from a small village. She existed around him in multitudes – as the sole listener in his life, the only coffee drinker around him, the only reader circulating back the magazines he allowed her to borrow. The Lover had small eyes that were tilted down due to the genetics passed down from her mother, which gave her the appearance of being eternally sad. As a result, she smiled with all of her teeth, and The Writer assumed it was to counter her natural given expression.

Somedays, his most wretched days, The Writer imagined The Lover standing at his door, drenched with the rain that followed her from the south, hands locked around a magazine that she forgot to return to him before his departure. He imagined the sharp sting of her hand against his cheek, knocking his head backwards, and a shrill shriek to signal her utter rage at him for leaving without a note. Abandonment, The Lover shouted in his imagination. The one thing I cannot stand to bear.

VIII

Thinking about The Lover made The Writer want to hurl. He tried to focus on the paper in front of him, suddenly horrified to see that he’d scrawled The Lover’s name viciously over the little writing he’d done earlier that hour. Instead of starting anew on another paper, The Writer stared down at his handwriting that memorialized the woman he loved, and then folded the paper. Instead of throwing it away or tucking it into a book, he pressed it to his breast under his sweater and let it linger there.

Nobody left the apartment building after noon because the snow had mixed suddenly with ice, falling in masses like dead birds from the sky. The noise bothered The Writer. He put his pen down and stared outside, wondering how it felt to be struck by the large ice. Would it knock some more sense into him? Some more inspiration? Was this the life experience that all writers spoke about? Would a singular experience in such weather make him qualified to write about hail? How did one measure experience? By the time spent with another person in the form of days, weeks, years, or by the number of conversations that resonated with the soul? By the number of kisses staining their cheeks or by the money spent on their happiness?

The Writer ate his lunch by the window. He thought about The Lover until his heart felt twisted in his chest. Then he prayed the third prayer of the day and twirled his pen between his fingers. No new words. He grew warm. Comfortable. How would he write the next great novel like this? Wrong. When he felt as if he needed to retch, he rushed to the sink, but nothing came up. He cleansed himself again. Then prayed the fourth prayer.

IX

After the final prayer, The Writer stood from the mat and gathered his papers along with a notebook to use as support. He stepped out of his room without a glance in the mirror, covered from head to toe in winter clothing that he had bought the day after he moved north. The Children in both rooms next to his were still loudly playing around, and every few seconds, The Writer heard one of the younger children complain about not being able to wander about in the snow outside.

“It’s cold,” The Older Superintendent’s wife patiently explained as The Writer passed by their door. “You’ve only just recovered from the flu.”

The Writer took the stairs to the lobby. He ducked his head at the doorman – who looked at him as if he’d grown a head – and stepped out into the hail.

The chill struck immediately on impact, a gale so strong blowing through him that he stumbled back. The paper and notebook in his hand trembled, but he held tightly, moving to the pavement. Small chunks of ice assaulted him, falling onto him like pebbles drowning in the river. When he arrived at the edge of the street, he stopped, glancing back at the apartment building. From this distance, he could see his small window and he visualized himself sitting there. A pathetic, jobless man, with useless ambition in his veins that amounted to nothing, and especially not money. He had no wife or child to his name.

Instead of writing, The Writer took his shoes off and set them on the ground on top of the notebook and paper. Then, without thinking, he pulled off his jacket. His hat. His scarf went flying into the distance, never to be seen again. Then he took his socks off, wiggling his tan feet in the snow. In his mind, The Lover was before him just like how he left her on the hospital bed: large bellied and watching. Always watching.

The Writer tilted his head back and opened his mouth, the cold wrapped around his spine like a killer snake, its fangs revealed as gleaming white daggers.

This is The Experience? The Writer thought. Was he shivering? Or was the world shaking? This was what he’d write about now that his outer body felt the same his inner did. A manifestation of the weight of his cold soul now against his skin. Hail struck him, burning ice. He held his arms out, embracing the cold into his lungs. When he collapsed, it felt familiar and right.

X

The Older Superintendent's thundering boots crunched in the snow, the ground thumping when he fell to his knees and smacked The Writer's cheek to rouse him. The Writer blinked and jerked around. No – was he The Writer? Or The Professor? The Human? The Existence? The Lover? Oh, yes. He would be The Lover That Wrote.

“I know now,” The Lover That Wrote whispered, shoulders caving. Hail swirled around him, hovering, but not harming.“To live is to be in agony.”

The Older Superintendent looked uneasy. Up close, he was young and bright eyed, cheeks crinkled from excessive smiling. It was hard to believe this was the man that took his own brother to court over a few tens square feet. The Older Superintendent hauled The Lover That Wrote up and dragged him back inside, muttering something under his breath.

“I know now. I know now. I know now,” The Lover That Wrote said. “God, now I know!”

He warmed slowly, but warmed. The Older Superintendent’s Wife watched him with wild eyes while her husband pushed their nosy children back into their unit. He was fed scorching food and made to rest in the guestroom. The Older Superintendent told him he did not have to pay the rent for February.

“But I must go home,” The Lover That Wrote whispered in the dark. His eyes grew heavy. “Tomorrow. I shall go home to her.”